Robes and revelations
by ridiculouslyromantic
Summary: Justin’s thoughts while listening to U2’s “With or without you.” Cancer-arc


**Title:** Robes and revelations

**Author:** Ridiculously Romantic

**Fandom:** Queer as Folk

**Pairing:** Brian/Justin

**Timeline:** Around 408

**Disclaimer:** I'm still fighting Showtime and Cowlip for custody.

**Author's note:** a full listing of all my stories is at , user name rrromantic

**Robes and revelations**

Paying close attention to the words of a song isn't something I do often. Or if I do, it's usually when I'm alone at the loft, or sitting in a café, when Brian isn't around to distract me from everything else. But tonight the notes pouring out of the speakers slowly, unexpectedly catch my attention and I hesitate, my finger poised on the power button.

The loft is bathed in darkness, except for the street lamps' shy light hiding around the furniture. Brian is asleep in the bedroom, and I was on my way to bed myself when the song started playing.

It's the melody that gets to me first... a forlorn guitar calling out, its voice a cry. Goosebumps hum up and down my back, making me shiver.

U2. An old band. One of _Brian's_ bands. I smile at the thought, imagining his reaction should I ever mention the iconic group to him in reference to his age. This song is one of their signature tracks... one which I have heard a thousand times before, but never really listened to.

I don't think I ever really _got_ it until now.

_See the stone set in your eyes_

_See the thorn twist in your side_

_I wait for you_

_Slight of hand and twist of fate_

_On a bed of nails she makes me wait_

_And I wait without you_

_With or without you…_

The refrain tears through me. It feels like it's bouncing off of my bones like a ping-pong ball, to end up swelling in my mind, ballooning until it's forced into every nook and cranny and I can't think anymore. Only feel. Only lose control of the fear that has been cramping in my chest and wrecking my gut for weeks now.

I press my thumb and index finger into my eyes, hard, as I try to push back the tears.

_With or without you…_

_Brian._

_With or with-_

Jesus. It's worse than any of the panic attacks I had after the bashing. My eyes sting and I'm breathing through my mouth as I fight to stay calm.

_With or without you_

_I can't live_

_Brianbrianbrian._

_Don't you fucking dare… I swear to God, if you fucking dare die on me, I'll hunt your ass down to the ends of the universe and drag you back here myself. And then I'm going to fuck you senseless and-_

I have been attuned to his every sound for far too long to miss the sudden rustle upstairs, in spite of the music, and Bono fades into the background as I fly to the bedroom.

_Brianbrianbrian._

He's leaning against the wardrobe, muttering to himself, when I enter with a strained smile and sweaty armpits and practiced casualness. I slip my arm around him cautiously, careful to not make him jump (his nerves, just one more part of him being frayed by the radiation), or in any way make him feel overly 'taken care of.'

He's standing. He's sort of talking. He's still alive. Gradually, the rush of blood in my ears subsides.

_Through the storm we reach the shore_

_You give it all but I want more_

_And I'm waiting for you_

_With or without you_

_I can't live_

"What are you looking for?" _I can't live…_

He doesn't look at me, just leans heavily into my embrace. The pressure around my throat increases, causing me to swallow repeatedly. It is little things like this that keep breaking my heart, while at the same time, I lose more of myself to him. If that is even possible. If there is even the slightest bit of me left that he doesn't already own. Jesus Christ, I love him so much I can't stand it.

_With or without you, I can't live..._

My hands are shaking when I brush his hair back... damp, sweaty. And for once, not because he has been fucking my brains out. Christ, how many times over the last couple of weeks have I wished it _was_ because he had been fucking me.

His lips brush against my palm; I know he doesn't even realize he's doing it. I know it's become second nature to him, which is why the token of affection gets to me more than if he did it deliberately.

_And you give yourself away_

_And you give yourself away_

_And you give…_

It's with these little things, and in the small ways, that he admits he _does_ need me. Regardless of his snarling and yelling and trying to physically push me away whenever he manages to stay on his feet long enough, I know he needs me. And fuck if he doesn't know it just as well. And he wants it, and hates it, and can't live without it. Just one more thing I'll never hear him say, but that's okay.

His cheek replaces his lips against my palm.

_And you give_

_And you give yourself…_

"My robe," he finally answers, and gratefully I latch onto the distraction. God knows things have been intense enough around here to last us a goddamn lifetime. Fucking Bono-brilliance.

"You're wearing it," I reply with relieved amusement. This is a crisis I can handle.

"This is yours. I want mine."

My smile evaporates. True, our robes are the same color - he bought me my own after he caught me wearing his for the umpteenth time - but his has a small burn mark on the right sleeve from when I jumped him one night without giving him enough time to put his cigarette out. He wasn't impressed, and punished me severely for my lack of respect for The Great Designers' creations. That mark is now clearly visible on his sleeve, so the one he is currently flapping around in is definitely his. Which can only mean…

_Shit._ _Fuck. _Fever. He's fucking delirious. Panic starts to seep into my brain. He's going to fucking kill me if I so much as _try_ to feel his forehead, but _fuck.._. "Brian." My voice is a bit more high-pitched than I would have liked, and I clear my throat discreetly. "This _is_ yours. Now come back to-"

"This one fucking smells like shit." He shakes himself loose from my grip and stubbornly turns back to the wardrobe. "Where the fuck is _my_ robe?" His fingers are pushing through his hair in a dejected gesture, and my stomach knots anew at how tired he sounds.

Even in the soft glow of the light above the bed, I can see his eyes are bloodshot, and with every part of me aching for him, I cup his face. His hand comes up to cover mine, taking my fingers between his, and with great difficulty, I close my mouth against the words tumbling on my tongue. Words I've been whispering more and more often, with my mouth in his hair, his cheek on my chest, when I'm sure he is fast asleep. I've been telling myself that even though he may insist he doesn't want to hear it (since when did Brian Kinney know what was good for him?), I fucking will at least tell his subconscious-self over and over and over how much I love him. How I…

_With or without you, I can't live…_

_My hands are tied_

_My body bruised, she's got me with_

_Nothing to win and_

_Nothing left to lose_

A small smile curls around those beautiful lips that I love so goddamn much, and for a moment he rests his forehead against mine. Asshole. He knows I can't refuse him anything when he does that.

I sigh. Fine. Whatever the fuck will get him back to bed. His robe... otherwise known as the robe he is currently wearing... is freshly washed, but apparently he has now taken offense to the laundry detergent. Or something. As opposed to mine, which I had left in the bathroom earlier this evening after having worn it for days.

"I'll get it." I wait until he crawls back into bed before going to fetch my robe.

He stands up immediately when I come back, in spite of my protests, takes the robe and puts it on. He's breathing hard. Halfway through the process, he turns away from me, but not quickly enough that I don't see him bunching the material in his hands as he buries his face in it. From the movement of his shoulders, I can tell he's inhaling deeply… _whatthefuck_?

_And you give yourself away…_

_That's_ what this is about? My robe? My… _Smelling_ me?

_And you give yourself away_

_And you give_

_And you give_

_And you give yourself away_

His fingers are warm around my wrist, but not overly so - thank whatever the fuck - when he pulls me towards the bed. I'm praying he doesn't notice my buckling knees or my own ragged breathing. He waits until I've scooted over to my side before spooning behind me.

Every so often, especially these days, I challenge him, trying to get him to turn around and let me be the one holding _him_. But not tonight. Tonight, it's my turn. He already has me wrapped around him in a layer of silk the color of my eyes, leaving his arms free to wrap around me. To hold me tight, pressed up close, our bodies sweating together.

_With or without you_

_With or without you_

_I can't live_

_With or without you_

It's easier to hide my tears when all he can see is the back of my head.

_With you… for always with you, I can live._


End file.
